Opening
Nights

PAnything Goes

5th Avenue Theatre, 1308 Fifth Ave., 
625-1900, 5thavenue.org. $29 and up. 
Runs Tues.–Sun. Ends Nov. 3.

Nothing could kill this Cole Porter classic like trying too hard; and, well, you know how touring musical companies can be: frenetic, plastic, mechanical. But from the start, practically the first lines, of this Roundabout Theatre Company production, it was a relief to see that the cast has the art-deco-era insouciance down pat. For instance, Scene One: Rachel York plays sassy lounge chanteuse Reno Sweeney and Josh Franklin plays Billy Crocker, an upwardly striving Wall Street newbie. They have a sexual history (no big whoop); she invites him to tag along on a transatlantic voyage (sure, why not?); and she sings “I Get a Kick Out of You” (pour me another drink, wouldja?).

If you can bring material like this true adult sophistication, and not just make it a sort of self-consciously mannerist period exercise, you have a winner. They can, and they do. York, in particular, is magnificent, owning the stage and making it look easy. (In Porterland, visible effort just leaves you less energy for the important things, like stowing away on luxury liners, knocking back cocktails, and looking good in white tie.) You know whose voice York’s reminds me of? Ella Fitzgerald’s. What they share is a lightly smoky bottom, like a peaty Scotch, that gains a bit of a ring as it opens up—not an edge, just a glint that delivers Porter’s word-drunk lyrics in high-def.

Also aboard: the ingenue Billy’s pursuing (Alex Finke) and the man she’s engaged to (Joey Sorge, as the sort of hapless British toff Terry-Thomas made a career of playing), and a two-bit gangster (Fred Applegate) and his sidekick/moll (Joyce Chittick). What they all want, and what they all end up with, forms the web of subplots that’s really just a scaffold for the songs, among which (“You’re the Top,” “It’s De-lovely”) are some of the high points of the Great American Songbook. (On the other hand, though practically every musical’s score has its gems and duds, the gap here is oceanic between Porter’s hits and his weirdly stodgy choruses, which sound like he was straining, but not quite managing, to forget all the Gilbert and Sullivan he’d ever heard.) Like the performances themselves, Kathleen Marshall’s direction and choreography is smart but never strenuous; her Act 1 tap-dance finale, to the title song, is everything you could possibly want a production number to be. Gavin Borchert

PThe Daughter of the Regiment

McCAw Hall, Seattle Center, 389-7676, seattleopera.org. $25 and up. 7:30 p.m. Wed. & Sat. Plus Fri., Nov. 1. Ends Nov. 2.

Seattle Opera brings a light touch to Donizetti’s 1840 opera, harmlessly updating the setting to France at the end of World War II—primarily, I’m guessing, so that soprano Sarah Coburn can look smashing in Julio Galan’s costumes, like a honey-blonde Andrews Sister. She plays the title role, Marie, who as a foundling was raised by an army platoon but who discovers she’s an heiress, jeopardizing her romance with Tonio—Lawrence Brownlee, who’s come to own SO’s bel canto tenor roles. Solid throughout, they both sounded best in their slow arias—especially Coburn’s two laments, at the end of Act 1 (a balm after 45 minutes of Donizetti’s martial fanfares and snare drums) and the start of Act 2. In the first she’s teamed with a solo English horn (Stefan Farkas), in the second a cello (Terri Benshoof), and her way with a long line shows her the instrumentalists’ equal in control and pathos-drenched, expansive phrasing. The role of Tonio is notorious for the showpiece “Ah, mes amis,” full of high Cs, but, as Brownlee pointed out, his “Pour me rapprocher” is harder yet, and the audience’s response was even warmer.

SO veteran Joyce Castle is adorable as Marie’s aunt the Marquise. Baritone Alexander Hajek is lively and nimble as regimental officer Sulpice; I’d love to see him back in any number of comic baritone roles. This airy beignet is flavored with one splendid touch of camp: The Duchess of Krackenthorp—a speaking part, often a cameo for a grande dame (Bea Arthur and Hermione Gingold have played her)—gets a drag turn from tenor Peter Kazaras, swathed in violet. Imagine Harvey Fierstein as the Dowager Countess of Grantham. Gavin Borchert

PThe Modern

American Chicken

Washington Hall, 153 14th Ave., cafenordo.com. $65–$90. 7:30 p.m. Thurs. & Sun., 8 p.m. Fri.–Sat. Ends Nov. 24.

An African tradition, dating back hundreds if not thousands of years, calls for a ritual to accompany the creation of a new drum. First an egg is cracked at the base of the chosen tree as a symbol of life, then follow prayers to acknowledge the sacrifice of the living tree.

Cafe Nordo has something similar in mind in restaging their first Seattle production, which made them local luminaries four years ago. The show pays homage to all things henhouse with a fanciful dining experience that does for the art of fine food and conversation what Shortbus did for sex. Equal parts meet-and-greet, nightclub, and gustatory exploration, Chicken is also a winking nod to—and lampoon of—the dinner theaters of yesteryear. But this is not some kitschy remounting of The Odd Couple set off by a three-bean casserole, store-bought rolls, and lemon-baked chicken breast for 500. Rather, there’s an Old World feel as the evening unfolds, with an accordion player gliding across the ballroom floor while the waiters—imaginatively costumed by Alenka Loesch—seat their patrons, not all of whom know each other beforehand.

What follows is a didactic-gastronomic tour through the life of a chicken named Henrietta, regularly punctuated with high-flung prose to illuminate each course, offset by generous pours of some of the best wines grown around the state. Hovering omnisciently is the apocryphal Chef Nordo himself, speaking through his charges about the origins and sensory details of your meal. The intent, successfully achieved, is that you become closer to both the food and the guests at your table. It only makes sense, then, that the meal is the main event, and in both presentation and flavor, it does not disappoint. Designed by director Erin Brindley, the menu proceeds from egg—nestled in a nest made from Parmesan cheese and phyllo—to a mild and savory chicken soup to a roast chicken stuffed with homemade sausage and habanero cherries.

Maximillian Davis brings sardonic flair to his role as emcee; Annastasia Workman’s original score includes country sing-alongs, jazzy instrumentals, and bluesy laments, all handled with dexterity by the performers, who also serve between the theatrical interludes (written by Terry Podgorski). With its delights and surprises (though few plot points other than the courses served), this is one very self-aware Chicken. Its performers all acknowledge the hoary dinner-theater cliches with tongues planted firmly in cheek, yet Chicken is certainly more highbrow and more foodie-oriented than anything you’d see in Branson or Vegas. (In fact, this show would make a great episode of Portlandia.) All the patrons at my table, fellow theaterfolk from Seattle or New York, shared in the irony and enjoyed a dinner most fowl. Kevin Phinney

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